


Birds of a Feather

by ToKillAMockingSomething



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Everyone Is Gay, Gay, Gay Male Character, Hydra, I don’t actually know his full name I just know ‘Riley’, I need help, M/M, Marvel - Freeform, Riley is a slut, SHIELD, almostoc, also very manipulative but he’s still baby, bxb - Freeform, maybe eventual smut, mcu - Freeform, raróg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToKillAMockingSomething/pseuds/ToKillAMockingSomething
Summary: Riley McCallan fell from the sky in a ball of fire. In that moment, all he knew was pain. Sam Wilson mourned his best friend and crush for years; he was familiar with pain. Sam learned how to deal with the loss, but what happens when he comes face-to-face with his old wingman....who can't even remember him?------I don't own anything here, except plot changes and Riley's whole being.  Not his character, though, if that makes any sense.Also, I changed his ‘full name’ from Jack Riley to Riley McCallan. So there’ll probably be mix-ups in the early chapters  PLEASE comment if you know his REAL full name, because I’m just doing my best here :/
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Riley (Captain America movies), James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, Riley/Brock Rumlow, Riley/Pietro Maximoff, Riley/Sam Wilson, Sam Wilson & Riley (Captain America movies)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: In my mind, Riley bit the dust 6 years before CATWS, so this this chapter and the next will probably be set in 2008, unless someone informs me otherwise

Riley McCallan relished in the air filling his lungs, but had no time to focus on the wonders of breathing. He had a mission. And a very important one, at that.

Sam Wilson, as always, was by his side. The two clashed at first; Sam was humorous and happy, but had a certain point where he'd just...close up. Riley, however, never closed up. An open book, very friendly, outgoing. He never made an attempt to make friends, unlike Sam, but just like Sam, he ended up with many of them. Two years of training forced them to tolerate each other, and eventually...well, they became fast friends once they got over the fact that neither liked the other for no reason whatsoever.

They banked, heading down fast. The metal wings attached to a harness on his chest felt almost like they were part of him; it was just natural and effortless, the way he flew with them. The EXO-7 Falcon; such beautiful things, and the only ones available were the ones he and Sam were using at the moment. Flying right above Khalid Khandil's base.

It was dangerous. They both knew the risks. No US aircraft could fly where they were flying, or the RPGs would blow them to hell. But, with the Falcons, they could, perhaps, sneak right past the defenses.

"Wilson to McCallan, over." His earpiece crackled, and the man lifted a finger to the comm.

"McCallan to Wilson, hear you loud and clear. What's up?"

"Keep your head in the mission, soldiers," another voice barked sternly, but not before Sam replied with a, "Stop sniffing the air, you dumbass. You'll get a bug up there, I swear."

Not wanting to piss off his superiors, Riley didn't reply, but snorted at his best friend, choosing to turn to Sam and flip him off instead. But they both sobered up when the voice from earlier cracked over the comms again.

"Keep alert, soldiers. You've been spotted."

Riley’s stomach dropped. That...was bad. Very, very bad. He glanced over at Sam, reminded himself for the _n_ th time that this could be their last mission together. He'd already committed every bit of the man to memory, and ignored the warm feeling in his chest when Sam looked back at him, knowing what Riley was thinking. He could feel the reassurance pulsing off the dark-skinned man in waves, and offered him an unsure smile in return.

_You should've said something before the trip,_ he berated himself. He couldn't say it over the communication line; that would be for all to hear, and that wouldn't fly- pun not intended. _Maybe, when- not if- when we get back safe, I can tell him._

_I can tell my best friend that I'm hopelessly in love with him._

The very thought scared him almost as much as the mission itself, and before he could shake himself out of the thought, a scream tore through the air. The wind was ripping through his ears, deafening him to the words of his teammate. But then the earpiece crackled, and he heard his name- "RILEY-"

**And then the world exploded around him.**

......

Jack Riley loved Sam Wilson. Just like water is wet, and fire isn't- it was just something everyone knew. Except, of course, Riley himself. Sam swore the man was dumber than a box of rocks, but that would be unfair to the rocks. Yet, still, he found himself falling for the incredible doofus. It started with their rivalry- neither knew why they hated each other with such a passion, but Sam's friends always teased him, saying that maybe that hateful passion was just a disguise for another kind of passion. He ignored them, and even laughed with them; such a thought seemed almost taboo. Until the two eventually got past their misgivings, and became friends, then best friends, then...well, two dumb boys in love.

Sam never admitted it to anyone. Instead, he toyed the hell out of the other man. He found it hilarious that Riley tried so hard to pretend that he had no feelings for Sam, when really, it was so fucking obvious-

And now, they're flying side by side. Sam teases Riley- "You guys are like an old married couple, I swear," the voice of one of his friends echoed in his head- and Riley, subdued by the threat of being unprofessional, simply snorted back.

Sam focused again, the grim reality of what they were diving into- literally- pulled him into his 'serious mode', as Riley used to call it.

Speaking of Riley, he turned to check on his partner (a word he loved more than anything), and saw that the man was staring back at him, looking scared. He smiled, trying to convey the feeling of calm across the space between them. It seemed to work, and he kept his smile, looking down.

A black dot. Hurtling towards them. Sam was already diving out of the way, screaming, before realizing that that dumbass of his wasn't looking-

"RILEY!" He screamed into the comms, and his best friend glanced up, worry etched onto the lines of his face.

The explosion rattled every bone in Sam's body, and shook his heart like something awful. His eyes slammed shut against the heat and the light, and he felt his body shoved back by the force. Quickly, he steadied himself, and dove, down, down down. He could see the fireball that was his best friend, hurtling towards the ground at a deadly speed. Their commander was assaulting his ears- "WILSON, HE'S DEAD! WILSON, PULL UP! WILSON!"

His body complied while his brain numbed over, repeating that this isn't happening, _this CANNOT be happening-_

And it's not until he's standing behind Khalid Khandil, calling in for the chopper to get their prisoner, that his brain finally catches up, and he freezes on the spot, tears stinging behind his eyes, because he should've told the man that he loved him, but he never did, and he can't believe he never will-

And then he's standing there while '2nd Lieutenant Jack Riley's family is awarded his Barnes' Cross award, and he's there when the empty casket is buried...

And he's there, but Riley isn't.

He starts helping others. He builds his life up again. It takes years, but he can eventually sleep without the reoccurring dream- memory- of watching his friend plummet, burning out like a meteor.

Eventually, he's offered the chance for a more exciting life: to join Captain America against the world; the government that he'd worked for not so long ago. And he takes it, why?

**Because if losing Riley didn't kill him, nothing could.**

(Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2fHHdofBvfNkT5AR7eGk9j?si=indeNqQSSgCa6vpinM3Ufw


	2. The Birth of the Raróg

_'The experiment has been reacting well to treatment,'_ the scientist wrote, pausing to click her pen as she thought of what to say next. ' _It's been very painful for him, but he's been in the right headspace for correction. His...appendages have healed somewhat. It took all our scientists to fix his back, and the burns he sustained have left permanent scarring. However, when looking at him, you can't see his bones anymore, so the skin grafts did well._

_'The 'appendages' in question have been upgraded, for lack of a better word. They were simple before; they're beautiful now. One can't even tell where the metal and skin meet, which is incredible, to say the least.'_

Her pen stilled in her hand when she heard the radio attached to her hip crackle to life. "Attention, Dr. Harper, the new Asset is ready for your inspection. The team just finished up with the left wing."

She held the radio up to her face. "Dr. Harper here. Is the subject be capable of flight at the moment?" She asked, packing up her notebook journal. She fished for her glasses in her pocket, slipping them on and blinking, heading towards to the office door. Her question was greeted with hesitance.

"...it's only been a week since we brought him in, Doctor. A week of surgeries and the Chair. Do you think he's stable enough?" The man on the other end asked incredulously, but couldn't see the smirk playing on the woman's lips.

"You're underestimating him, Mister Jakob," she replied lowly, and she could almost hear him tense up on the other end.

"I-I apologize, ma'am," the agent stammered, and the doctor rolled her eyes, heels clicking against the tiled floor. She pulled the door open, heading out into the main hallway. Cautious eyes flitted towards her as she passed, and she reveled in the power and fear she commanded over the others. She finally made it to the new patient's room, pulling a clipboard out of its holder by the door. She flipped through a few pages, humming contentedly at the progress.

The moment she pushed the door open, everyone inside froze. Instantly, the scientists scampered out of her way as she stalked towards the man, who stared emptily at her. Deep bags were carved under his eyes, and dirty-blond hair had been shaved down to the scalp. The grafted skin was flushed compared to the pale tone of the rest of the body, but it was a miracle that they salvaged anything at all. Even more so that they pulled a whole human out of the wreckage.

Dr. Harper wrinkled her nose as she remembered approaching the scene, taking her daily stroll around the base for some fresh air. She'd immediately alerted HYDRA officials, and they got a team out there in under a minute. The smell of burning flesh still tickled her nose, and the sight of metal and skin melted and molded together was somewhat nauseating to recall. Deft fingers traced over the area that had been so horribly destroyed, now clean and almost normal-looking, if it weren't for the cherry-red patches of skin and scars, and, of course, the 'appendages'.

Or, to be more precise, the wings.

Glorious metal wings, reminding her of the wings of the mutant named Angel she'd seen on the news, back in '83, when a bunch of rogue mutants decided to destroy a city in Egypt. The wings were huge, and molded with the man's back seamlessly. They rustled uncomfortably when she touched them, and a smirk played on her lips. They'd beat that out of him, eventually. But for now, she settled with a disapproving glare that made the man shrink.

"What's your name?" She asked him coldly, watching him carefully. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he mulled the question over.

"I don't have one," he mumbled, looking at the ground. He squinted at the tiles, looking irritated. "Or, I don't remember. Do I have a name?"

_He's acting too human_ , Dr. Harper picked up angrily, watching him express his emotions; fidgeting anxiously, eyes widening the slightest in fear. _No asset should know fear_.

"You are our Asset," she gritted out, reminding herself not to slap him for his disgusting fear. He nodded, swallowing.

"My name is Asset?"

"That's how we'll address you," she replied, not really answering his question. He glanced up at her, annoyance flashing across his face almost too fast to see.

"Who are you?" He asked defiantly, and she inhaled sharply. _You couldn't have expected this to be easy_ , she reprimanded herself. _The other Asset took nearly sixty years to fully tame. It'll take time, but the outcome will be worth it._

"Your superior," she retorted, and he scoffed, shaking his head.

"Of course you wouldn't give me a straight answer. Can you tell me where I'm at, at least?" He probed, a taunt in his voice.

SLAP!

His head went twisting to the side, and he gripped the side of his face in pain, hissing through his teeth. Dr. Harper's hand stung with the force of it, and she pressed her lips in a thin line. Agent Jakob had been right. He wasn't ready for flight. He wasn't ready for training. He wasn't even stable. They'd have to wipe him again. And again, and again, until he lost the human in him. Only then could he truly show his real potential.

"Take him to the Chair," she demanded, and the guards from outside marched inside, grabbing the new Asset by his free arms. He didn't struggle, not understanding a thing going in. It was almost endearing to see the scowl on his face and the terror in his eyes.

While the guards dragged him out, one of the other scientists in the room approached Dr. Harper. "Ma'am, in all due respect, he doesn't have any super soldier serum. He'll die before he's stable!"

"Or, he'll loose his mind," another piped up, and a feral grin crept up the sides of Dr. Harper's face.

"Funny, how you think that would deter us," she hummed, fingers twitching towards the gun on her hip. _Don't kill them_ , a little voice in her head warned her. _They're meek, feeble, dumb. They don't understand. They're children compared to you._

She listened, relaxing her hands back to her sides. But not before sending an ominous wink towards the cowering group of tinkerers. She sashayed away, barely containing her glee at the prospect of a new project.

_It'll be quite a task, but that's the fun of it, isn't it?_


	3. “On Your Left!”

It had been six years. Six tough, ruthless years. Sam had left his job as a pararescueman, and trained as a therapist instead, inspired by the amazing therapist he himself had gone to after...well, the 'Incident'. After all, his friends had always told him that he'd make an amazing one, so why not?

He started helping other veterans. He lived his life the best he could. He still kept himself in shape, if only because he felt that Riley would be disappointed if he let himself fall into disrepair. 

_God, Riley. Six years, huh?_ Sam thought, praying that Riley could hear him from wherever he was at. He liked to think that Riley got himself a place in Heaven, despite not believing.

“On your left!” A man called, and Sam glanced over, just in time to see a blur of a man run past him. Sam nearly stopped in his tracks, astonished. 

_What the-_

He kept running. Until, once more- 

“On your left!”

The same man rushed by, and realization dawned on Sam. _Holy shit- that’s Steve Rogers!_

“On my left. Got it,” he panted, and waited. 

The thump of feet on pavement behind Sam alerted him, and he murmured, “Don’t say it, don’t you say it-”

“On your left!” The cheery man chirped. Sam glanced at him from the corner of his eye in exasperation. 

“Come on!”

......

Samuel Wilson was a great therapist. And, in addition to that, he was a veteran, so he knew how service effected people. 

He knew to be kind and open with Steve, and could sort of relate to him. After all...shared experiences must mean something?

 _Well, that was dark,_ he reprimanded himself. _And not everything’s going to be about your trauma, Sam._

Yet, somehow, it always seemed to be. 

......

_What do superheroes eat for breakfast?_

Well, that was a question he’d never prepared for. But, seeing as how he had two heroes in his house- both taking turns in his shower- he figured he’d have to make them something. After all, his usual meal of cheap cereal and orange juice wouldn’t cut it. 

So, with his mind set on his task, he brought out all the eggs from his fridge, and the sausages that had been sitting in his freezer, and got to work. 

When he was finished, he stood back, arms crossed. None of the food was burnt, which should’ve surprised him, but it really didn’t. Not because he had that much faith in himself, but because he had faith in Riley’s lessons. 

He could almost feel the comforting heat of a body pressed up behind him, hands gently guiding his own while he worked. “ _You’re doing awesome! Now shuffle your spatula in the pan- yes, like that!- and don’t let them get crispy...”_

The man’s sweet voice faded as footsteps thudded in Sam’s hallway towards Sam, and he quickly set up some dishes and silverware for his guests, a small stinging behind his eyes. He blinked it away; no, he wasn’t going to cry. 

“I made breakfast...if you guys eat that sort of thing,” he added dubiously, second-guessing his work. Steve gave him a thankful smile, and Natasha simply plunked herself at the table, nodding her head curtly before digging in.

Silence hovered awkwardly in the air as the two ate. Sam has already eaten, and after that nostalgic moment he’d had, he didn’t really feel hungry. 

“So, the real question is,” Steve piped up, “how do the two most wanted people in Washington kidnap a SHIELD officer in broad daylight.”

_Right. Shit. Focus, Wilson!_

“The answer is: you don’t,” Sam replied firmly, grabbing a file off the top of the fridge and plopping it in front of Steve. And not just any file. His file. Though, to be honest, he hadn’t been paying complete attention to the start of the conversation- something he thought he was past. 

_You’re making progress, Sam. Now don’t go undoing it._

“What’s this?”

“Call it a resume,” Sam huffed, and Natasha instantly stared nosing through it. 

“Is this Bahkmala? The Khalid Khandil mission, that was you,” she affirmed, turning to Steve. “You didn’t say he was para-rescue.”

Steve turned to _the_ page, and Sam could feel his heart shudder weakly in his chest. 

“Is that Riley?”

“Yeah,” Sam murmured. 

“I heard they couldn’t bring in the choppers because of the RPGs. What did you use, a stealth chute?”

“No, these,” Sam replied, fishing another file from his compartment above the fridge. Hidden amongst his snacks: his most important things. Which, really, was either a smart hiding place, or an incredibly stupid one. 

Steve opened the file, staring at the picture inside. The FALCONs. 

“I thought you said you were a pilot.”

“I never said pilot.”

“I can’t ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason.”

Sam could feel his chest tighten. Steve was right. He got out ’cuz of Riley...what if he got triggered? What if he messed up? He’d already proven to become easily distracted at the mere thought of his best friend...

But he didn’t voice any of that. “Dude, Captain America needs my help. There’s no better reason to get back in.”

“Where can we get our hands on one of these things?” 

“The last one is at Fort Meade, behind three guarded gates and a twelve-inch steel wall,” Sam started grimly, but Steve merely glanced over at Natasha, who shrugged her shoulders in confirmation. He turned back to Sam. 

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”


	4. The Fight Begins

Any human left in the shell of the man had been scrubbed clean through the half-dozen years he’d been brainwashed, wiped of anything and everything. 

Well, nearly everything. The shell of a man still had his fiery spirit, which, although HYDRA did its best, no one could break. The Raróg- his new name- was savage, feral, unpredictable. 

Yet, HYDRA managed to rear in their beasts, and put them to use. Sooner than later, the Raróg had almost as many legends about him as the Soldier did. Both only ghost stories, but the stories still set fear deep in the hearts of the enemies of HYDRA.

Currently, the Raróg was readying for a mission side-by-side with the Winter Soldier. This was Winter’s second mission in the past few days; they didn’t trust Raróg much. Winter was used for assassinations- sniping, gathering intel, and vanishing- while Raróg was, well, their weapon for massacre. 

Their handlers helped them into their gear, and the Raróg stared at the wall blankly while the Soldier assembled his guns. 

“Raróg, eyes on me,” the handler snapped, and his eyes darted to the man in front of him. A feral look flashed across his features, but quickly melted under Rumlow’s disapproving look. The man was the Soldier’s handler, not the Raróg’s, but with the way the Raróg listened to him, it could easily be mistaken that the man looked over both of the fists of HYDRA. 

“Spread your wings,” the handler ordered, and the Raróg complied, allowing the man to dress him in his custom Kevlar top. 

The sound of loafers tapping the floor behind them made the Assets turn around, suddenly face-to-face with the Director Pierce. 

“I see they’re both ready to go?” He spoke with Rumlow, and the man nodded. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” the Director replied, handing Rumlow a yellow file. “Here’s your mission.”

“Sitwell was snitching?” Rumlow rumbled, and the Director nodded grimly. 

“Take him out.”

“You got it, Director Pierce,” the man replied, saluting, and Pierce meandered off, his guards trailing behind him. The Raróg stared coldly on as he was hefted to his feet, before righting himself and following the guards out the door. He was handed the file, and opened it, blind to the cautious eyes watching him. 

The Raróg flipped through the pages, scanning the faces of the targets. A blond man, a redhead woman, and...someone...vaguely familiar?

The dark-skinned male seemed to stare up at him from the photograph. His eyes were slightly sunken, but filled with a light that Raróg had never seen before. 

“Samuel Wilson,” his handler supplied. “You saw him once on a mission.”

“Do I know him?”

His handler froze, while the other two men tensed.  _ It was like they’d been waiting for him to say that... _ Raróg suppressed a shiver. 

“No,” Rumlow replied easily, and Raróg nodded, accepting the short answer instantly. Of course; how could he know Wilson?

……

Sam was nearly shivering with adrenaline. He had his wings back. He fished a man out of midair and tossed the bastard onto a roof. He was officially helping Steve Rogers- one of the most wanted criminals in, well, the world now. Or, at least America. 

It was exhilarating. 

“HYDRA doesn’t like leaks,” Sitwell spoke up from behind, and Sam rolled his eyes. 

“So why don’t you try sticking a cork in it,” he suggested sarcastically. 

“Insight’s launching in sixteen hours, we're cutting it a little bit close here,” Natasha reminded the men, and Steve sighed.  _ Wait, should I be calling them by their first names? Or their last? Better figure that out before you gotta address them _ , Sam panicked. 

“I know,” Steve inserted. “We’ll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the Helicarriers directly.”

“What?!” Sitwell screeched, and Sam gritted his teeth in annoyance. “Are you crazy? That is a terrible,  _ terrible  _ idea-”

A crash echoes through the car, and Sam spun around in his seat, eyes wide. A metal hand was clutching Sitwell’s throat. 

The metal arm attached to the hand yanked the HYDRA agent out the window, tossing him into traffic with astonishing power. A spray of blood misted the air. 

And suddenly, the killer was shooting. Sam froze in place, terrified. 

_ Well, Riley, looks like I’ll be seeing you sooner than I thought.  _

Steve lurched forward, yanking on the brake handle. The car screeched to a stop, hurling the man off the roof. Sam watched in terror as he skidded down the empty highway, digging his metal hand into the ground to slow himself down, crouching and glaring at the car. Sam forced himself not to look away from those terrifying, icy eyes. They were a predator’s eyes. 

He jolted forward in his seat as another vehicle hit them from behind, his chest hitting the steering wheel, knocking the air out of him. Beside him, Natasha scrabbled for the gun just out of her reach, lounging across the two men's laps. She’d saved Steve...

A hand punched through the windscreen- not metal- and yanked the steering wheel out of the car. Sam glanced up just in time to see a winged figure, standing like a Valkyrie over a battlefield. Blood ran down the figure’s arm, and a grin tore through the visible part of their face. It was a man, with a bird-skull masquerade mask covering all but his jaw, crooked into the feral grin that struck Sam like a punch to the chest. 

Sam was so enraptured by the sight of the man above him that he forgot his surroundings, until Natasha started shooting at the man. He almost cried out for her to stop- the creature was too beautiful to die- but realized instantly that this was a  _ life or death situation, goddammit Samuel Wilson! _

The man escaped with a single pump of his wings, and the car jolted forward, uncontrolled as it ping-ponged around the lane. Which Sam decided was not very good, considering they were on a  _ fucking overpass _ . 

“Shit!” He gasped a bit late, glancing over at Steve, who was clutching his door. 

“Hold on!” The blond yelled, breaking the door open and pulling Sam and Natasha with him. The three fell onto the door, skidding away from the demolished car as it flipped into the air. Sam gasped as Steve’s grip loosened just enough for him to roll off the safety of the door, tumbling down the road and grunting every time the road tore at his arms and legs. He stumbled, trying to gain control. 

A bomb ricocheted off Steve’s shield, blowing him off the overpass. Sam could barely hear the sound of crashing vehicles and screams over the thundering of his own heart. He quickly got behind a car, Natasha at his side. 

Gunshots rang out, and Sam watched as Natasha made a run for another car. 

_ Go! _

He dashed to the safety of a small car, and winced at the sound of another explosion. And then another after that. 

Machine guns roared as he scambled across the overpass, looking for a weapon of any sort. 

_ Come on, come on…there! _ A knife, in the pocket of a fallen HYDRA soldier. He fished it out, flicking it open and running towards another soldier, who was about to rappel off the bridge. A swift kick in the man’s knees, an uppercut, and a shove off a bridge later, Sam had the man’s machine gun and was picking off the shooters down below. 

“Go! I got this!” He called down to Steve, who was hesitant in leaving him alone. But Sam knew he could do this. And even if he couldn’t...well, the civilians’ lives mattered more than his own. 

He lined up his shot, staring down the barrel at the shooter behind the semi truck. With a quick round of bullets, the man was gone. 

Sam sighed, a slight, giddy smile pinching at the corners of his mouth. He’d forgotten how great the adrenaline felt during a fight. 

He quickly returned to reality when another explosion cracked through the air. Sam straightened, then ran towards his poor, crushed car. Glass was everywhere, and the poor thing was completely demolished. He’d barely laid a hand on the trunk when the memories flooded over him. 

…

_ He was walking through the dealership, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a stupid, loud Hawaiian button-up fluttering against his skin. A warm, loving presence was beside him- he could never imagine the man not there- laughing along with Sam about something. Sam missed those days. He hadn’t genuinely laughed for...God, so long.  _

_ “I told you they were gonna look at you funny!” Riley sniggered, and Sam grinned, ripping off his sunglasses, revealing them to be shaped like bright-pink flamingos.  _

_ “Aw, shuddup,” he replied, unable to stop smiling. His best friend threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Sam could smell his weird, flowery cologne. ‘Girly’, Sam had called it. But what he never said was that he loved the smell. It was part of Riley’s smell; that unique, addicting smell.  _

_ “So,” Riley said, startling Sam out of his thoughts, “you said you had your eye on something?” _

_ “A pretty little piece,” Sam declared, and Riley rolled his eyes- Sam didn’t even have to look to know.  _

_ “It’s gonna be like all the other cars on the road,” he predicted. “You should choose a car that’s...y’know, you.” _

_ “And get too attached? Every time I lend you my car-” _

_ “Hey!” Riley yelped, shoving him back. “That was- well, one day, you’ll total your car all by your lonesome, and I won’t be held responsible.” _

_ “Oh really? I doubt that,” Sam retorted, and pulled Riley back, dragging him over to the shiny, black Chevy waiting for them. He slapped the car roof, turning to Riley, who looked less than impressed.  _

_ “This baby,” he said, giving her a good pat, “has some good stuff in her.” _

_ Riley raised a brow, a sly smirk tipping his lips up. “Oh really? Mind telling me what you know?” _

_ Sam rolled his eyes.  _

_ “Fine. I know nothing about it. But, it’s the cheapest one here, and that’s saying something,” he grumbled, and Riley gave him a sympathetic look before pushing off the truck he was leaning on, taking his time strolling over to the car. He gave it a good look, peering around the trunk and tapping the hood for no damn reason.  _

_ “She looks good,” he quietly approved, and Sam grinned at him, feeling a little warmth in his cheeks. This was just so...normal. They weren’t on a mission, or training for one. They were simply being people, for once.  _

_ Riley broke out of whatever he was in, his normal impish grin hiding the soft look in his features.  _

_ “I’ll bet she’s goanna be the one you’ll crash!”  _

_ “Motherfu-” _

_ Sam had chased that punk across the parking lot, before the two of them nearly got run over, and dragged themselves back to the car, sweating and gasping for breath. They’d both paid half for it, and that day, Sam had driven his little beauty back to his apartment, running his fingers over the smooth leather wheel.  _

…

_ The suit, _ Sam reminded himself, drawing himself out of the memories. Pain stabbed in his heart, but he ignored it in favor of brushing the glass off the crumpled trunk. Worry laced through his mind-  _ what if it got crushed, what if I can’t help them- what if, what if… _

_ What if I get a flashback? _

That one almost stopped him from prying the trunk open. That worry was entirely too plausible- he could have a flashback in midair. After all, he’d only flown twice more after Riley’s death; the second time to save that sniveling HYDRA rat, and that was only just a quick dive. The first time...was to release Riley’s ashes over the forests he used to love, where he’d spent most of his life. Or, they assumed that those ashes were his. Really, all they  _ found  _ was ash, along with a few large bits of twisted metal. 

Sam felt a tear running down his cheek, and wiped it away hastily, ripping open the trunk. There they were, safe and ready to get to work. 

He pulled it on, strapping himself in securely before he spread his wings. Gritting his teeth together and strapping his goggles over his eyes, he took off. 

The world was all in shades of red and black through the goggles, but they helped him focus, and kept his eyes safe. He soared over the city, keeping himself grounded with his fingers digging into the opposite wrist, pain making his mind sharp. He caught sight of Natasha, hunkering behind a car, holding a hand to her chest.  _ That can’t be good.  _

And then, Steve. Facing off against the psycho who threw Sitwell out the window. It was almost quiet, with nearly all the attackers out of commission, which left Sam to wonder…

_ Where’s the winged man? _


	5. In Which Two Birds Clash

It all happened so fast. The scream of metal against metal, the body hurtling into his own. Raw muscle clashed against his chest, and all the breath in his chest left in a helpless wheeze. 

Sam was stupid. He should’ve known...but he didn’t. The winged man had been above him. Waiting for the right moment. 

He plummeted through the air, staring up at the sky. Or, more accurately, the shape blocking out the sky. Sun backlit the hair of his attacker, making it glow blond. From the shadows, dark brown eyes shone with malice. A hand squeezed his throat, and he choked, mind working a mile a minute. 

_ No. This can’t be the end. I’m not dying this way! _

Sam slugged the man across the face, but his grip never loosened. He just gazed down at Sam, triumph in his eyes. 

So, Sam went for the weak place. The groin. 

The man finally loosened a bit with a grunt, and Sam tore his hand off his throat. He kicked off of his attacker, spiraling into a dive before pulling up again, this time with guns blazing. 

Sam’s attacker dove for him, shielding himself with his wings. Knowing that he didn’t have amazingly good chances against the HYDRA soldier, he sped down towards the streets, away from his pursuant. He made several sharp turns, but it was like the soldier always knew his next move. So, he followed the path of destruction, hoping to be led to the other two- they could certainly help him. 

Up ahead, he saw Steve staring in horror at the Winter Soldier, frozen in place as the Soldier raised his gun-

Sam soared behind him, kicking him in the back and making him stumble. Sam landed with a shaky run, then leapt to the side, out of the way of the grenade explosion. A memory flashed behind his eyes- fire, screaming, death- but he repressed it, just as an FBI agent kicked his knees in. He collapsed, but stayed quiet, and allowed the agent to restrain him. 

“Drop the shield, Cap! On your knees! Get on your knees! Now!” 

Sam scowled as the yelling man- Brock Rumlow, he remembered from the files Steve gave- pushed Steve to the ground, but they all complied. And then, out of the blue, the winged man swooped in, landing gracefully in front of Rumlow, head held up. He stared expectantly at Rumlow, who chose to ignore him in favor of telling off the man who had a gun to Steve’s head. 

“Put the gun down. Not here. Not here!”

The soldiers pulled the trio to their feet, and they were ‘guided’ to the back of a white, reinforced van. 

_ Well, this has certainly taken a turn for the worse.  _

“It was him,” Steve spoke up, just as the van started. “He looked right at me like he didn’t even recognize me.” Sam knew he was talking about Bucky- or, the Winter Soldier. 

“How’s that even possible?” Sam asked, blinking at the man. “It was, like, seventy years ago.”

  
  


“Zola,” Steve muttered. “Bucky’s whole unit was captured in ’43; Zola experimented on him. Whatever he did helped Bucky survive the fall. They must’ve found him, and…” 

“None of that’s your fault, Steve,” Natasha murmured. But Sam knew Steve’s feelings too well. 

…

The Raróg sat side-by-side with the Winter Soldier, both uniform and stone-faced. Rumlow and that incorrigible man Raróg was forced to call his handler. He stared almost dreamily at Rumlow, the corners of his lips tipping into a ghost of a smirk. 

“Got something on my face?” The man asked roughly, and Raróg dragged his eyes away, surveying the inside of the van. 

“No, sir,” he replied smoothly, hearing a grunt in return. The Winter Soldier gave him a sour look- his whole face was sour, he couldn’t help it- and Raróg felt a smirk rolling up his face, giving the Soldier an almost imperceptible wiggle of his brows. The man looked away with a huff, and the Raróg relaxed into his seat again- well, relaxed as much as one could with huge metal wings attached to their back. He shuffled uncomfortably, and Rumlow gave him a stern look. Oh, Raróg knew he’d been showing too much...human, recently. Showing discomfort, glee, smugness, anger, and even flirtatious slightly. But Raróg knew they couldn’t hurt him for it like they could hurt Winter. After all, he was unstable. 

Too many wipes, start-overs, hours strapped in a metal chair and getting his brain fried. Of course he remembered those sessions- that was the reason he didn’t rebel. They could take everything, but they couldn’t take his fire. If his idea of humor extended anywhere past the thrill of killing, he would’ve laughed. 

_ HYDRA’s fists: fire and ice.  _

They couldn’t take his fire, just like they couldn’t scramble his brains with their machines for showing emotions. It wasn’t like he felt them- he just picked them up. Besides, if he were to go back in that chair...well, who knew how many more sessions he could withstand? His body was only human- well, human with some slight alterations, but human nonetheless, nothing like Winter’s super-soldier build. He could fry up in that chair, or finally get pushed fully over the edge, where he’d no longer be useful. 

And they certainly wouldn’t want to risk that. 

So while he wiped his face clear of emotions, he did happen to feel a little bit smug. 

_ They can’t take my fire...so they fueled it.  _


	6. Nothing Beautiful Lasts

“He’s goanna be there, you know,” Sam started, walking up to his friend. Steve stared out over the edge of the bridge they were on, eyes unfocused. 

“I know.”

Sam breathed in deep, knowing this would be difficult. “Look, whoever he used to be, the guy he is now...I don’t think he’s the kind you save. He’s the kind you stop.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Steve replied honestly. 

“Well, he might not give you a choice. He doesn’t know you.”

Sam could tell he hit a sore spot there, as Steve straightened and turned. 

“He will. Gear up, it’s time,” he ordered shortly, walking off. 

“You goanna wear that?” Sam called back, blinking at the man’s civilian clothes. 

“No,” Steve huffed. “If you’re goanna fight a war, you gotta wear a uniform.”

And with that suspicious statement, he left Sam alone. The man sighed, running a hand down his face as he leaned against the rail of the bridge. The winged man’s face- or, what he could see of it- haunted his vision. He saw it every time he closed his eyes: that damn smirk, those familiar eyes. 

_ It’s not him _ , he tried convincing himself, swallowing lump in his throat.  _ You’re seeing similarities in things that are completely different.  _

But it didn’t really help, so Sam hardened his resolve and found a solution. 

_ I’ll just have to kick off his mask.  _

…

Sam was walking with Steve towards the Helicarriers, still new to this whole superhero thing. He was confused- actually, more than that, he barely had a clue of what to do- but he had the general concept, so that would have to be good enough. 

_ Unless it isn’t _ , he worried, thinking about the many, many agents in the building. Some were with HYDRA, while some were oblivious to it. So…

“Hey Cap, how do we know the good guys from the bad guys?” He piped up, and Steve barely took a moment to reply, “If they’re shooting at you, they’re bad.”

_ Fair enough _ , thought Sam, and flew off, immediately twisting through the air to dodge the bullets aimed at him. 

“Hey Cap, I found those bad guys you were talking about!”

He flew away from the HYDRA agents, escaping their range while Steve asked, “You okay?”

He didn’t know how to respond- how does one reply to that while they’re being fired at?- but he figured he was alright, so he said, “I’m not dead yet.”

More jets came at him- “Falcon, status?” “Engaging!”- but he flew down to the Helicarrier bay, safe for the moment. 

“All right Cap, I’m in.”

But in a heartbeat, he wasn’t so safe. Another jet was heading his way and firing. 

“Shit!” He gasped, flying as fast as he could. Over the headset, he could hear Maria and Steve talking in small clips, but their words were drowned out by the machine gun roar behind him. 

“Alpha locked,” Steve announced, and Sam felt a small bit of relief, trying to find a way out of this predicament. 

“Falcon, where are you now?” 

He gritted his teeth, flying towards one of the Helicarriers. “I had to take a detour!” He yelled, and glanced behind him by chance-

_ No _ , he whispered to himself, seeing the jet with missiles out. They launched the missiles, and Sam felt a grim weight settle in his chest.  _ Guess we always did everything together,  _ he mused sadly.  _ We’re even going to die the same way. Shot out of the goddamn sky.  _

He almost chuckled at the morbid realization that he could feel exactly what Riley felt as he was blown apart. See if his nightmares were true. See if he lived long enough to feel the torture of the explosion. 

Until a heavily muscled body ran right into his lithe one, knocking him out of the way of the heat-seeking missiles. Something cold- fire extinguisher?- foamed over his wings, and he spun out of control, landing back in the Helicarrier bay out of sheer dumb luck. 

_ Or was it? _

His bones groaned with him as he sat up, staring at his savior. 

For a hot second, he saw Riley there, staring back at him hopelessly. But...not out of sorrow. Out of confusion. And then it was the Raróg- Sam thoroughly researched him after their fight- staring at him with confusion and anger in his eyes. Like he was wondering why he saved Sam. 

In a heartbeat, he was gone, soaring through the air as the missiles chased after him like bloodhounds. He was so graceful in flight, like it all came naturally to him. 

_ He’s beautiful… _

He disappeared behind the Triskellion, and Sam heard the explosions through his ringing ears, staring as the clouds of fire bloomed from where the missiles met their target. 

_...he’s dead.  _ But that was the dark side of life, wasn’t it? All beautiful things lived quick and died young. The ugly things...well, they stayed. Sam supposed he could be an ugly thing; after all, two beautiful things died because of him. And he was somehow not in the dark waters of the Potomac below, although the injuries he sustained from the crash certainly made it feel like it. 

On autopilot, his body trudged inside the Helicarrier, climbing up ladders and pacing down catwalks until he reached the cylinder where HYDRA’s controlling chips were. He replaced one with SHIELD’s, and lifted a hand to his headset. 

“I’m in,” he announced in a normal voice, staring into space. “Bravo locked.”

“Two down, one to go.” Hill confirmed, and Sam took off again. 

…

  * _earlier •_



Raróg stared at the names and faces of the people on the list. He glanced back up at his nervous handler, who wouldn’t look him in the eye. 

“Kill them?”

The man rolled his eyes. “What else would we have you do?” He asked, and Raróg felt anger rear up inside of him. The insolent man! He believed HYDRA would protect him from Raróg, but he truly didn’t know how expendable he was to them. However, Raróg kept him around; killing him wouldn’t be worth the punishment, and besides, this one was weak. The next one might not be. 

He looked back down at the tablet, committing the faces to memory. “Ready,” he growled, and handed the tablet back to the handler, who tapped something into it. A few moments later, the door to the cell opened, and Rumlow strode inside. Raróg pushed down his urge to smirk. They knew they couldn’t trust him to allow anyone else to dress him. He was too...vulnerable, and he only allowed a few people to see him that way. 

One of those was Rumlow. 

The other handler left while Rumlow brought in Raróg’s clothes, and the Raróg stood silently, waiting for a sign to move. 

“Put your pants on,” the man sighed, tossing the nearly naked soldier Kevlar leggings. The Raróg complied, and followed Rumlow’s directions, pulling on his tactical pants next, then his socks. The handler kneeled down to help him lace up his military boots, while Raróg shuffled his wings absently.

Next was the customized Kevlar top. He stepped into it, and Rumlow pulled it up to cover his stomach, reaching up to toss the shoulder straps over his back. The Raróg turned around and allowed the man to attach the shoulder strap to the back piece, so every inch of skin was covered. 

Leather gauntlets reached halfway to his elbows, and a worn, red cardigan was shrugged meticulously into place. The final piece was his infamous bird-skull mask, which covered the top part of his face, leaving only his mouth and jaw to be seen. 

The Winter Soldier’s gear was definitely intimidating, but everything about it was rough, blocky, thought-out. Raróg’s was made to look like a vigilante’s, so he would fit in more with the big city environment. After all, it was almost common in these modern times that you’d be walking down the block and someone would try pickpocketing from a grandma, only to be stopped by some makeshift anonymous hero in funky gear. 

Once he was finished gearing up- complete with many assorted weapons all over his body- the Raróg followed Rumlow out of his cell and down the stuffy corridors, flanked by several squadrons of guards. They exited into the HYDRA base’s cover-up bank, and filled up the black SUVs. The driver started the engine, and they were off. 


	7. Riley or Raróg?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anyone wondering, the Raróg is a Scandinavian fire demon, and also a type/breed of falcon (or some raptor, I think?) Anyways, I saw it and thought, ‘Well, it sounds a little funny, but it’s perfect!’

With his target’s faces in mind, the Raróg set off, soaring around the Triskellion and peering through windows. Once his eyes landed on an unsuspecting victim, he dove through the window, yanked the woman out by her hair, and tossed her out of the building to her death. 

A cold feeling enveloped his arm, and he stared down at his hand, smirking at the familiar fire that flickered over his flesh. He himself was impervious to the flames- HYDRA had fully awoken his mutant genes, ones they said ‘probably kept you from burning up’- but his enemies weren’t. 

He soared over the Triskellion, the screens in his mask’s eye holes identifying his targets. With deadly precision, he shot tongues of flame at his victims, and barely blinked as they crumpled, writhing, already far beyond saving. 

He would’ve kept going- over a third of his targets were gone- but out of the corner of his eye, Raróg spotted him. 

The only target who’d ever gotten away from him. 

_ Wilson, _ his mind echoed, and he changed directions, knowing that HYDRA would love it much more if he took down the man playing hero instead of another nobody agent. He sped over to the man, and noticed that the man was hovering in place. 

_ Why? _

He looked in the direction the man was staring, and felt a chill in his bones. Heat-seating missiles, aimed right at his target. 

Pain wracked through Raróg’s skull, threading into the creases of his mind as he groaned, clutching his head in agony.  _ Memories _ …

…

_ A small dot, growing bigger by the second. Screaming through the comms. And fire, everywhere, all at once.  _

_ It had hit his wing, and the whole thing had exploded, incinerating the flesh off his body. The fire wreathed him as he plummeted through the air, with no control over his fall.  _

_ Wait- the skeletons of his wings, with some carbon fiber still catching wind. They were useless for flying, but maybe not for gliding. Haphazardly at best, but maybe… _

_ Through the agony, he gave one last command to his burning body.  _

**_Extend._ **

_ He lost consciousness at that point, but the pain followed him into his subconscious, gnawing at his bones and licking its fiery tongue through his muscles.  _

_ Somehow, it didn’t destroy him. Because even in his last moments, he could feel something battling against the enemy flames, something chilling and...comforting.  _

_ He sunk into the darkness that it promised.  _

…

More memories tore through whatever barrier was holding them back, but he managed to wrestle them away from the present. In a heartbeat, he was diving, colliding with the dark-skinned man. Wilson went tumbling into open air, but the emergency fire extinguisher that Raróg shot at the man’s wings had enough force to send him towards the opening under one of the...flying machines. Helicarriers, Pierce called them? But Raróg returned to the task at hand, hoping absurdly that the man would fall into the Helicarrier. 

The missiles were honing in on him, now that he was the only warm body in front of them. His mind flashed with panic, and he glanced down at the man he’d just saved. 

Wilson. Dark eyes stared up at him in awe, and Raróg found himself wondering why he did that. Why he took the missiles instead of his enemy. But in a split second, he was rocketing away, trying to outrun the missiles. 

He knew that if he could get far enough, he’d be able to shoot fireballs and detonate them from afar. But the first step to that was hauling ass. 

He looped through the air, spinning away and gaining speed. Voices filtered through his comms, demanding that he fire already, but he was far too close. 

_ Just a little bit longer _ . 

He zoomed behind the Triskellion and glanced back.  _ Now! _

He launched a fireball at the closest one and hoped the explosion would set off the others, before diving down to the dam. 

The explosion was like a kick to the back, and it propelled him deep into the water. He squinted his eyes against the slap of water, and shuddered as the waves punched him in the chest. And then, he sank. 

…

Sam was empty. Emotionally, mentally, just...fucking empty. 

Steve was in the hospital. He and that Winter Soldier had fallen out of the Helicarrier and nearly died. Thankfully, the Soldier saved him...they still couldn’t figure out why. Steve remained unconscious. 

Natasha was battling press conferences, all day, nearly every day. She’d warmed up to Sam, enough to break the devastating news to him before the media could. 

The Raróg was Riley. 

Sam had nearly figured it out himself, but having it said out loud...well, that hurt more than any explosion could. 

_ Explosion.  _ Speaking of which, they hadn’t found Riley’s body yet. Just like they hadn’t last time. Events just kept repeating themselves. 

Sam held onto the hope that Riley survived again. After all, events repeating themselves could apply to this...event. 

Or so he desperately wished. 


	8. Shopping Spree

Raróg’s eyes were screwed shut against the murky water of the Potomac, and his ribs ached from the more-or-less belly flop into the river. 

He felt his fire roll over his wings, protecting them from the water, and slowing warming up his body. The muddy river floor touched his cheek, and his eyes snapped open once more, heart fluttering. 

... _ need air…!  _

He hurriedly swam up to the surface, gulping lungfuls of air. All around him, debris from ruined Helicarriers rained from the sky, and he hurriedly swam for the opposite shore, dodging flaming scraps of metal along the way. 

When he finally managed to drag himself onto the bank, he nearly let himself get dragged under by the waves once again, because the sight in front of him shocked him to the core. 

The great, feared,  _ dangerous  _ Winter Soldier was pulling Captain America out of the water, setting him gently in the sand. With a final glance back, the intimidating man stalked into the woods, leaving his target behind him, still breathing. 

Raróg stared after him, tilting his head quizzically.  _ Does he know that Rogers is still alive? _

For a second, doubt lingered in his mind. Doubt aimed at the Soldier, doubt that he was following HYDRA’s orders- 

_ No _ , he reprimanded himself, forcing his weak legs to stand.  _ Winter’s been with HYDRA longer than you have. He’s loyal, and he knows what happens when you disobey.  _

Wilson’s face flickered in his mind-  _ I saved him, didn’t I? _ \- but he quickly banished the idea that he saved the man. 

_ I simply body slammed him. I thought he would fall into the river, and that the fire extinguisher would damage his wings. It was only coincidence that the missiles targeted me instead.  _

Satisfied with that explanation, he stumbled across the beach, instinct drawing him towards the woods where the Winter Soldier had disappeared. As he passed Rogers, he tried coming up with an explanation for Winter’s actions. 

_ Maybe the man is dying from bodily wounds. There is a lot of blood, after all. Winter just wanted to make sure his body was actually found, instead of getting lost in the murk. That makes sense, right? _

…

In no time, he stumbled across a highway, and followed it to a huge intersection. He’d since tucked his wings under his coat, but it wasn’t a great disguise, and he was still dressed like a cosplayer that lost their way to their convention. However, the dip in the Potomac had washed off most of the blood and grime, and his flames had quickly evaporated the murky water. 

He hailed a taxi off the main road, but as soon as the cab pulled up, he yanked the driver out, and pulled away from the scene.  _ Transportation: check. Now all I need is somewhere I can get something to hide these wings.  _

Raróg wracked his mind for any information about this sort of thing. He knew that civilians went out and exchanged currency for necessities, but he didn’t know where they would go to do that sort of thing. 

A chirp echoed through the vehicle, and he jumped, knife in hand, glaring down at the small, glowing square attached to the console. He had commandeered a vehicle before, but only knew the basics- he had no idea what the square was. 

“Right turn in fifty yards,” a female voice piped up, seemingly from the square. And, as was drilled into him, Raróg followed the strange order. 

“Turn right.”

He followed the directions, turning and stopping as the glowing square told him. After a few near crashes and several minutes worth of angry horns blaring at him, he finally reached a parking lot, where the square said, “You have reached your destination.”

Raróg glanced up, seeing a tall building ahead. He pulled neatly into a parking spot, contrasting against his frenzied, deadly driving on the roads. He stared down at the box, waiting for further instructions, but it was silent, with only the name of his destination still glowing on the screen: Rosslyn Center. 

Figuring that he was on his own now, he left the taxi and the odd square in the parking lot, stowing the keys in his pocket. 

The building loomed over him, and with a deep breath, he stalked towards it, pulling the door open. 

The first thing he noticed was that it was teeming with people. His wings twitched in agitation- he needed to hide them, fast. 

He followed the crowd down wide halls lined with shops, and ducked in and out of the stores, desperately searching for something he could use to maybe disguise them, hide them,  _ conceal… _

And that’s when he saw it. A huge, black bag on the display window, labeled ‘Deluxe Harp Carry Bag’. 

_ A mouthful _ , Raróg mused,  _ but it looks like it’d do the trick.  _

He glanced up at the store sign- Doug & Tuck’s Music Shop- and wandered inside. He pretended to browse their wares for a little bit, before heading straight to the rack of carrying cases. Grabbing one, he made his way to the counter, hoping that the money that the taxi had collected would pay for the bag. 

“Hello,” he greeted the clerk, trying desperately to remember how people spoke. After all, HYDRA preferred their soldiers silent, and only really allowed him to speak while they were drilling foreign languages in his head.

“I’d like to make a purchase.”

She nodded tiredly, eyeing the large case.

“Usually we have the guys in the back get those off the hook, but all right.”

She reached for a black box shaped like a gun, and he stiffened, ready to fight if he needed to. 

But instead of pointing it at him, she grabbed the pack, nimble fingers finding a striped tag, and held the gun over it. A beep sounded from the not-gun, and she slid off the counter, glancing at a screen. 

“That would be three-hundred and ten dollars,” she announced, and Raróg blinked, helplessly reaching into his pockets and dumping the mess of change and bills onto the counter. The girl blinked down at them, unimpressed, and looked back up at him. 

“Are you serious?” She asked, and Raróg narrowed his eyes in defense. 

“I can’t count it,” he spat out. “I don’t know how.”

She looked taken aback, but sighed, resignedly sorting through the mess. 

“That’s...not even a third of what you need,” she spoke up, a pitying look in her eyes that Raróg immediately hated. 

“How much is it?”

“Barely ninety dollars.”

“What can I do to get more?” He asked desperately, stepping back in defeat. His bird skull mask bounced off his thigh from where it was holstered under his hooded cardigan, and she sighed. 

“You could...work a few shifts?” She tried suggesting. “Or, do you have a credit card? Debit?” 

At his confused look, she sighed again, before her face twisted, glancing up at one of the overhead monitors. It was playing the news, and when Raróg turned to look at it, he saw himself on the screen, shooting fire at the SHIELD agents. 

“... _ Authorities are still on the lookout for this man, the previously assumed dead 2nd Lieutenant Riley. _ ”

A picture of someone that resembled Raróg flashed onscreen, but it was...wrong. He was smiling, eyes crinkled with mirth. He was leaning against a familiar man…

_ Sam Wilson, _ he recognized, and wondered if they had been friends. If that’s why his instincts made him take the missiles. 

A shocked gasp broke him out of his stupor, and he turned to see the cashier staring at him in shock. 

“Holy shit- you- you’re-”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, before punching her in the temple. She went down like a sack of bricks, and he hefted the bag over his shoulder and strolled out of the music store, trying desperately to fit in with the tide of shoppers.

He managed to get to the front of the Rosslyn Center before a loud voice echoed from speakers on the walls. 

“Attention shoppers, fugitive Riley McCallan has been spotted within Rosslyn Center. Please check any electronic devices for the latest news footage to identify him.”

People whipped out their phones, while others yelped in terror. Raróg himself pushed himself through the doors, seconds before they all clicked shut, locked to keep him from escaping. But it was too late. 

He leapt into the taxi, shoving the harp carrier helplessly into the backseat as he started the car and pulled out, trying to avoid all attention. But too soon, sirens were blaring behind him, and he remembered the former driver. 

_ Shit. I didn’t kill him, _ he realized, and sped up, tearing down the highway. People stared from their cars as he roared past, before he released his wings, slicing the roof and sides of the car open. 

Raróg grabbed the harp bag and flew out of the roof, knowing that the bag probably served him no use now. Still, he brought it with him as he fled the scene, allowing the car crash beneath him to draw the attention. 

  
  
  



	9. “Go Home”

Raróg went the only place he could think of: the hospital. Specifically, the hospital where Rumlow was. 

The carrying bag was a little small and misshaped for his wings, but he dealt with it, and managed to wrangle them into the canvas well enough to hide them for the time being. That said, he didn’t know how to get them  _ out  _ of the bag yet, but he settled on figuring that out later. 

He sat in the waiting room, feeling very out of place. They had yet to call him back to Rumlow’s room, so he had to wait, the rough canvas chaffing his shoulders. 

He’d changed clothes, and threw on a disposable mask, one that covered the lower half of his face. It was inconspicuous enough, but couldn’t hide all of his face. So far, though, no one had recognized him, so he figured it was working. 

His clothes and possessions were tucked under the floorboards of a dead man’s cabin just a few miles from the hospital, and he hoped to the high heavens that nobody would stop by and check on the dude. 

“Nice bag,” a voice mentioned, startling him out of his thoughts. A young teen was eyeing it, curiosity in his eyes. “Whatcha got in it?”

“Harp,” Raróg grunted in reply, startled. The kid grinned. 

“Cool. I play guitar, myself,” he continued, looking proud. “I’ve been learning a lot of songs on it. Do you know any songs?”

Raróg wracked his brain for anything remotely related to music, but couldn’t think of anything. 

“No,” he said instead, and the kid kept his smile. 

“Well, I have a few that I think might sound good on harp. Have you ever heard of-”

“Johnathan Wiles?” A woman called, peeking over the front desk. “Mr. Rumlow is ready to see you now.”

Raróg gave the teen a tight smile, standing to leave. “You can tell me later,” he said, and left to see the HYDRA officer. 

…

The winged man stood over the hospital, eyes lingering on the burn scars of he HYDRA man in front of him. 

Raróg has been lucky; his wounds had healed quickly, thanks to the healing properties in his mutation. His skin still had uneven patches, with bright scar tissue winding through the worst places. But for a man who had practically been burned to the bone, he’d been very, very lucky. 

Rumlow...not as lucky. Half his body was covered in bandages, but the cherry-red glowed through the fabric. However, his uncovered eye was wide open, staring at Raróg with something akin to surprise. 

He quickly regained his cool, and smirked. 

“I didn’t think you’d come to me,” he mused, and Raróg gazed at him a few moments longer before settling in the visitor’s chair. 

“You’re my handler,” was his simple explanation, and Rumlow raised a brow. 

“Your handler is Mackentoff,” he jested, though he knew what the Raróg meant. Raróg didn’t, furrowing his brow and staring at the man. 

“But you’re  _ my  _ handler,” he stressed, folding his arms and sitting back. Rumlow noticed that more human was starting to break through, and felt a spark of relief that he quickly killed. 

“Well I can’t handle much, can I, now?” He asked, motioning with his good arm to his charred body. Unsure what the right answer was, Raróg stayed silent, waiting for instructions. 

Rumlow sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He knew that the Raróg wouldn’t listen to anyone else- the instructions  _ had  _ to come from him. So he lied silent for a moment, thinking over his decision carefully. 

The Raróg was an incredibly useful weapon. But Rumlow felt like it was more than that. The man trusted him, and Rumlow could almost say that he felt fond of him. Besides, although he wouldn’t admit it to himself, he wanted what was best for the man, after all their years of serving together. 

“Go home, Raróg,” he mumbled tiredly, opening his eyes deliberately slowing. Knowing that when they were open, the Raróg would be gone. 

After all, it was a direct order. And who wouldn’t be quick to go back home?

_ They’ll treat him well _ , Rumlow assured himself, eyes drifting closed once more. 

…

He breathed in the moist, freezing air. It chilled him to the bone, but was refreshing. And as he dove through the clouds, he mulled over Rumlow’s order. 

_ Go home _ . He knew where home was, but he wondered why he needed to go back. He hadn’t been there since forever, mostly serving in the States. But an order was an order, and he flew east with determination in his eyes. 

_ He was going home.  _

…

Sam stared tiredly at the woman seated across from him. She watched him carefully, waiting patiently for him to speak. He sighed, rubbing a palm across his face. 

_ I’m supposed to be the therapist. Now look at me- back here in the same room I was all those years ago.  _

Melinda Mackentoff, his therapist since before Riley’s crash. Aging face, with dry, blonde hair that curled over her shoulders. Some people would call her beautiful, but Sam wasn’t ‘some people’. He thought she was stunning, certainly, but only in the way she could pick him apart and see the things he tried so desperately to hide. 

“It started...y’know, all of this,” he grumbled, waving his hand, “when they needed our packs. The Falcons. We were dispatched at the Malacky Air Base. It was the usual, you know, but then the Khandil case...well, they needed our suits. But none of their soldiers could fly ’em. They’d only just tracked him down, and they weren’t about to waste time on training newbies to fly. It was just Ry and I. So...we were shipped over there.”

He sighed, blinking a few times and staring at the ceiling. 

“Ry was excited- he loved adventure, and chasing down a terrorist was a promise for adventure- but, well…”

“He’s the terrorist now,” she tried to sympathize, causing Sam to sit straight up, glaring at her. 

“He isn’t a terrorist!” He protested, and Melinda sighed, placing a placating hand on his knee. 

“Samuel, I know this will be a hard thing to accept. Impossible, even. But he’s not the same man you once knew.”

He groaned, falling back into the overly cushy chair. He knew that already. But did he believe it? No. Because if there was one thing he knew about his Riley, it was that he was  _ always  _ himself, and would never change. 

And Sam refused to believe that he would change now. 


	10. A New Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome back to part two! I’m still new to AO3 (this is my first book on here), so a little introduction to how everything works might be in order. Any help is appreciated! Anyways, this takes place in Age of Ultron. Comments are my fuel, guys!

A bright light woke Raróg from his sleep, and he sat straight upright, eyes adjusting. Once his vision cleared, he recognized the woman who’d turned the light on.

“ _Matka_ ,” he murmured, hurriedly climbing out of bed and standing at attention. A wry smile tugged at her lips, and she nodded to him.

“ _Raróg_ ,” she replied. “Breakfast starts in an hour. Ready yourself.”

She left, and Raróg quickly opened his small closet, pulling out his suit. Donning it, he stood in front of the tiny mirror above his grimy sink, and washed his face. When he looked up, he huffed, eyeing his oily, tangled hair, long from months of no attention.

_It would be better short_ , he thought, but grabbed a hair tie from the sink counter and pulled it back instead. Sliding his weapons in their rightful places, he knocked on the bars that kept him in his ‘room’. The correct word could be ‘prison cell’, but Raróg had seen those, and they weren’t as nicely furnished.

Guards escorted him to the dining hall, where the experiments were eating their breakfast. There were over fifty, and most- if not all- had brought in willingly, but their numbers decreased by the day, even with the new additions that were brought in every week. Even though Raróg was just their glorified guard, he had enough knowledge about the experiments in question to know that they were very dangerous.

Of course he’d know. He was the first of them.

He grabbed his tray and got his food, sitting at the table he was supposed to watch over. The experiments were already seated, and the ones who’d been there longer had already started their first meal of the day. The newer recruits hesitated, wondering if they’d need permission to eat. With a silent nod from Raróg, they scrambled to clear their plates.

A familiar white-haired boy plopped next to Raróg, and he internally sighed as the Maximoff man began to talk.

“You’re training us today, yes?” He asked in English, Sokovian accent thick. Raróg nodded, and the young man carried on, blathering about how he was going to ‘knock you onto your ass, old man’. Raróg didn’t know his own age, but from looking in the mirror, he could tell he wasn’t that old. But he simply rolled his eyes, ignoring the boy. His twin sister plopped down on his other side, sending a hesitant, wary smile towards Raróg before distracting her brother. She and the other recruits were smarter than the boy, making sure to avoid any and all contact with him.

The clock struck seven. Wordlessly, the heads of all the tables stood in sync, and the recruits hurried to follow. Raróg, along with the other guards, led the trainees to the gym, where they’d be spending most of the day. After all, they needed to reach peak physical performance before HYDRA would waste their experiments on them.

Raróg wasn’t one of the main trainers, but he stayed in the room. He was the sparring teacher- a job he was overqualified for- and waited for his moment.

The Maximoff man jogged up, white hair bouncing on top of his head.

“You look sulky,” he noted, moving to stand beside Raróg, arms crossing. The man paid him no attention, but that didn’t seem to bother him.

“I’m faster than all of them,” he bragged, and grinned up at Raróg. “I wonder if my new ability will be speed. That would be neat, wouldn’t it? Show me yours again, please,” he added, eager as always. Raróg rolled his eyes with a huff, holding out his hand, palm up. In a heartbeat, his hand was engulfed in flames. A few other recruits stopped running track to stare, but he shot them a threatening glare, and they hurried to keep running.

Maximoff reached to touch the fire, and Raróg quickly closed his fist, extinguishing the fire. Maximoff frowned, and Raróg scoffed.

“You actually wanted to touch fire?” He grumbled incredulously, and Maximoff blinked in shock, obviously not expecting him to speak.

“It’s your fire,” he pointed out. “It’s not hurting you.”

“That’s because it’s my ability. My mutation,” he grumbled, looking away. He ignored Maximoff’s questioning gaze, and stood taller when he heard the shrill of a whistle.

“It’s time,” he sighed in something akin to relief; standing silently in the corner might’ve been his job for most of the day, but he greatly preferred sparring.

All the recruits gathered around, and Raróg lumbered over to the sparring mat, gaze sharp, piercing. His wings were folded tightly (and uncomfortably) against his back, and he could see a few people try and get a better look at them. He cleared his throat, bringing the attention to his face.

“We’ve been learning moves the past few weeks,” he began, surveying the tense crowd. “Today, I’m going to put those moves of yours to the test. One at a time, you will step up and spar me, alone. Many of you know you stand no chance of beating me, but actually using the moves you’ve been taught will improve your fighting.”

“Who’s first?” One of the guard’s barked from behind him, interrupting the surprised silence. Raróg never spoke, and here he was, giving a speech.

“Me, of course,” a woman replied confidently, strutting up to the mat. Raróg looked her over: stocky, with thick arms and legs that could strangle a man in seconds. He’d been keeping an eye on her, and figured she’d be eager to volunteer.

Of course, he beat her within five minutes. He could’ve done it in under a minute, but they wanted the recruits alive, unfortunately, so he had to defeat her in a more roundabout way.

The next few were equally easy; or, for him they were, at least. Granted, with his mutations came enhanced speed and strength- nowhere close to super-soldier speed or strength, but better than any normal man’s- but these people had been trained by him, meaning that they needed to be better than an ‘easy’ fight, even before they underwent experimentation. They needed to be the best.

Eventually, the crowd thinned, and volunteers were getting harder to find. From the earlier sea of raised hands, there were only three or four willing to put their hand up and step onto the mat. And when Pietro Maximoff stepped up, Raróg didn’t know whether he should be surprised or not. Yes, the man was a spitfire, but Raróg has assumed he was all bark, no bite. But here he was. Ready to bite.

“Bring it on, old man,” the lithe man jeered, and waited for Raróg to make the first move.

After assessing his target, the HYDRA soldier darted forward, quickly aiming a blow towards the younger man’s sternum. To his utter shock, the other man skipped out of range, quicker than a blink.

“Try again,” he chuckled, and Raróg could imagine the pained horror on his twin’s face. But, still, he pushed on, sending blow after blow. The Maximoff man escaped a good amount of them, but he couldn’t outrun the Raróg for long. After all, the man was more than muscle.

The quick boy ducked under a high kick, only to find himself spinning through the air, hands gripping his hips and he was slammed to the mat. Amber-gold eyes glinted above him, and hips bracketed his own. He gulped, trying to pull his wrists out of the older man’s grip.

“I win,” the blonde murmured in his ear with a chilling smile, before standing up, releasing the other and letting his face fall into its natural, stone-cold expression.

“You did well,” he praised, and murmurs filled the room. He never praised anyone.

Pietro’s cheeks heated up, and he scrambled to leave the mat. Wanda greeted him, a smirk on her face.

“Don’t,” Pietro warned her, but when the call for another volunteer went out, Wanda raised her hand. Pietro rolled his eyes.

“You won’t do any better than me,” he huffed, and she ruffled his hair before stepping into the mat. She actually put up a fight, and even landed a few blows. Of course, Raróg won, but he made eye contact with the head of the guards and nodded in what looked like affirmation.

“You’re getting better,” he told her, and sent her back to her twin. The two looked at each other in surprise.

_What’s going on?_

**Author's Note:**

> You can find this work and others at my Wattpad, DoneShineAndPainbows. Toss some Kudos to your author (o’ valley of plenty) if you like the work!


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